“Because it’s Valentine’s Day,” I joked.
“Valentine’s Eve,” she corrected me.
“Which is still the holiday for lovers. And I suppose we have Chaucer to thank for that.”
“Chaucer?” Amanda raised an eyebrow.
“It’s true,” I told her, reveling in the historical facts as usual. “Okay, so, yes, February fourteenth is known for the patron saint who refused to give up his religion after he married people on the sly and was thus executed for it. But Chaucer was the one who really linked the day to love.”
Amanda clasped her hand over her mouth, as if something really tragic had happened. “How did I not know this?”
I leaned forward eagerly, thrilled to share. “During medieval times, some believed that birds mated on February fourteenth.”
“Which makes complete sense”—Amanda lit up— “because Chaucer uses birds as a symbol of love in his poetry.”
“Fascinating, right?”
A second later the waiter came and delivered our tea, asking if we wanted to hear about the love specials. Apparently everyone’s sushi orders were being arranged in heart shapes.
“No thank you,” Amanda told him. She turned to me, once the waiter was out of earshot. “Mark it on your calendar. February thirteenth, a day to celebrate life. Even Chaucer wouldn’t disagree.”
“Chaucer’s dead.”
“But obviously his words live on.” Amanda held up her cup of steaming green tea.
I raised my cup to toast with hers, and we ended up treating the rest of our dinner like a holiday, even ordering celebratory cake at the end, along with glasses of faux-champagne.
I looked back down at the hospital bracelet, confident now that February 13, that day at the sushi bar, had indeed been her birthday. That had to be what we were celebrating. “Ariel Feckerol,” I whispered, suddenly noticing that some of the lettering on the bracelet had worn off.
I grabbed a pen and filled in the missing segments, turning Feckerol into Beckendorf with just a few quick strokes. But still, as exciting as it felt to figure out just one more piece, it was frustrating not to be able to envision anything when I touched the bracelet—when I rubbed my thumb over her name, wore it on my finger, or held it up to my forehead.
I picked through some of the other items inside the box, determined to find something—anything—that would make this pit stop more worthwhile. I raked through a plethora of photographs, concentrated hard on a bag of sand, and flipped through a whole stack of postcards.
But there was nothing.
I felt nothing.
And I envisioned even less.
I took a deep breath, wondering why this power was so erratic—why one minute I’d touch something and the vision would be so distinct.
And then something like this would happen.
I wondered if it had something to do with Hal, Callie, and Zoe. It seemed some of the most significant visions I’d gotten happened when I was in their presence. Or in the presence of at least one of them.
I shoved the photos back inside the box, along with the postcards and the bag of sand. I was just about to close everything up when something caught my eye.
On the underside of the box’s lid there was a bulge beneath the velvet lining.
I ran my fingers over it, feeling a soft lump. Something was hidden inside. I tugged at a corner of the lining, noticing how the stitching wasn’t consistent all the way around. It was tight along three sides of the lid but much looser at the bottom, as if that side had been restitched by hand.
Without hesitation, I tore at the stitches and ripped open the seams. Within seconds, one side was completely open. I stuck my fingers in; my middle finger brushed against something soft.
I plucked it out. It was a swatch of pink fabric, no bigger than the palm of my hand. One side was fuzzy, while the other had a silky feel. I was almost positive it was from a baby blanket. The edges were frayed where the swatch had been cut from the larger whole. I flipped it onto the silky side, noticing a couple of embroidered letters: an A with half of a lowercase R.
“Ariel,” I whispered, knowing that this had been a section of her baby blanket—Amanda’s baby blanket.
I smoothed my palm over the fuzzy side, able to picture clearly the entire scene: baby Ariel sleeping peacefully in her crib; a moon-and-stars mobile hovering just above her, with the ARIEL blanket covering her middle. I pressed my eyes shut and could see the loopy lettering of her name. It had been done with a sparkly gold embroidery thread, appearing brighter and cheerier than its current drab state. And her birth date, February 13, had been stitched just below it. I concentrated harder, noticing how a corner of the blanket had been folded downward, stuck under baby Ariel’s chubby little leg.
I opened my eyes, continuing to palm the fabric, spotting a bit of yellow embroidery by the torn side, no bigger than the size of my thumb. Was that the part that’d been stuck under the baby’s leg? I ran my hand over it, wondering what it could have been. A design of some sort? More lettering, or an essential clue?
Beyond anxious to get back to the others, I stuffed the blanket swatch into my pocket, crammed everything else back inside my closet, and hurried out the door.
CHAPTER 30
I burst through the doors of the gym building, but Mrs. Watson stopped me just short of the auditorium.
“Ticket, please,” she said.
“Really?” I asked, all out of breath.
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
It was actually hard to judge, considering the clown wig and muumuu dress she was wearing (complete with equations and formulas patterned on the fabric and the sequined number earrings). I assumed the get-up was for the occasion, but on second thought, I couldn’t be sure.
“Ten dollars per ticket,” she said. “Tonight’s a fundraiser, remember?”
“Right,” I said, fishing a couple of rolled-up fives from my wallet.
Mrs. Watson stamped my wrist with a smiley face, handed me a voting ballot, and I was in—just in the nick of time to catch Heidi and her dancing clonettes. They were lip-synching to “It’s Raining Men,” a 1980s song. Heidi, Kelli, Traci, and Lexi held matching umbrellas to protect themselves from the storm of naked Ken dolls that poured down from the ceiling.
Classy.
The auditorium was packed, and not just with students and chaperones. Parents came, too—hordes of them—cheering on their sometimes dubiously talented offspring. Case in point: Chief Bragg was sitting in the front row, videotaping Heidi’s whole lip-synch routine, even as a GI Joe doll bopped her on the head.
Finally, I spotted Callie and Zoe standing at the side, a bit back from the stage. Callie was uneasily watching for me, and Zoe was talking to some members of the glee club. Was there anyone that girl didn’t know? I made my way over to them.
“Well?” Callie asked, anxious to hear what I’d found out.
“We’ll discuss it later,” I said, reluctant to get into it now. “Where’s Hal?”
“Backstage, practicing.” She gazed up at the I-Girls, and gave a subtle shake of her head, probably wondering how she ever could’ve been one of them.
Finally, once Heidi’s act was over, Callie raved about Cisco—about how amazing his monologue was, and that he should really look into acting.
“So, I missed it?” I asked, dismayed. Fortunately I had seen it at home. I could fake my way through some congratulations.
“So good,” Zoe continued, turning away from her glee club friends without missing a beat. “I mean, look-out-Hollywood. That boy definitely gets my vote.” She flashed me her filled-in ballot with Cisco’s name at the very top.
“Wait, what about Hal’s band?” Callie pointed out.
“Right.” Zoe nodded. “I probably need a few more ballots.”
I rolled my eyes as the two of them turned all fangirl on me—as Zoe marveled about my brother’s quote-unquote sexy eyes, and as Callie went into way too much detail describing his well-worked ch
est under the leafy tank he’d been wearing as Puck.
When I’d heard thoroughly enough about my brother’s “hotness,” West appeared on the stage and grabbed the microphone at the front, and with it my complete attention.
The band was arrayed behind him: Hal on guitar, Kofi Chamblee on the drums, and a kid named Charlie Miles playing keyboard.
West was dressed in dark vintage-looking jeans and a basic tee, and his hair was caught somewhere between slicked back and artfully messy—sort of a 1950s greaser look, set in the present day.
A second before the band started to play, West looked in my direction and did that shoot-you-with-a-finger move, before starting to hit the chords on his bass guitar.
And then he started to sing.
His voice was silky-smooth, reminding me a little of Frank Sinatra’s or Harry Connick Jr.’s. I felt my body sway from side to side, completely swept up in the moment and in West’s voice, and in the way he kept glancing toward me, as if checking that I was still there.
The band was spectacular. The way the members came together—their voices and instruments culminating into one truly amazing sound—it just brought the music to a whole new level.
Sort of like us, Amanda’s guides.
When the song was over, Hal’s parents, sitting in the front row with Cornelia, jumped out of their seats to give the band a standing ovation. Meanwhile, West came down from the stage.
And made a beeline for me.
“Hey.” He smiled, standing right in front of me now. “I’m so glad you came.”
“Yes, well, of course I came,” I said.
“Yes, well, I’m glad.” He smiled wider.
“You guys were incredible,” I said, wanting to congratulate Hal as well, but he was surrounded by Cornelia and his parents.
Only a couple of seconds later, the next act began. It was Tara Tate and Muriel Spencer, performing a peculiar good-versus-evil dance, equipped with pitchforks and angels’ wings.
“Do you think that hurts?” West asked, after an unfortunate entanglement between the forks and the wings when the girls collided.
I couldn’t help but laugh, which felt really good. Because I just hadn’t laughed in a while.
Finally, Hal came and joined us, heading straight to Callie first. The two smiled at a private joke, and then Hal turned to me and asked me if I had any news.
I looked at West, hating to leave him but knowing that we had very pressing matters. “I’m really sorry,” I told him, “but would you mind excusing us for a few minutes?”
“No problem,” he said, still watching the show, but venturing to touch my forearm, which made my heart beat at quadruple its normal speed.
I led Hal, Callie, and Zoe into a corner by the coat rack and tried to convey my overpowering motivation: inspired by the lightning-bolt-like jolt that pulsed through my body upon joining hands in the barn, I wanted to try touching some of the items in Amanda’s box.
“Did you picture anything?” Hal asked.
“In a way, but not in the exact way I’d hoped.” I told them about Amanda’s birthday at the sushi restaurant, and how I was obsessed with that hospital bracelet. “I felt like I needed to touch it—to see if I could picture anything.”
“And did you?” Zoe asked.
I shook my head. “And so I just started touching everything in there, trying to justify my reason for going home in the first place. But I didn’t envision anything.”
“Until?” Hal asked, as if reading my mind.
“Until I discovered that the box had a secret compartment. It was under the lid. And there was something hidden in the lining.” I pulled the swatch from my pocket, pointing out the capital A and the lowercase R.
“Why would this scrap be hidden?” Zoe asked, brushing her fingers over the fuzzy fabric.
“I don’t know, but it’s clearly from her baby blanket. I was able to picture the whole thing—the crib, the mobile, the nursery, even baby Ariel.”
“Aka Baby Amanda,” Callie breathed.
“Aka Ariel Feckerol.” Hal sighed.
“You’ll be pleased to learn that Feckerol is actually Beckendorf minus a few strokes, most likely attributable to wear, tear, and age,” I told them.
“And that would make me pleased because . . . ?” he asked, looking cranky.
“Because it’s one less name we need to worry about.” I gave him an optimistic smile.
“All this baby stuff,” Callie said. “I mean, do you think there’s some significance to it all?”
“Well, Thornhill did say that Amanda’s birth was definitely key,” I reminded them.
At the same moment, Zoe pointed out the bit of yellow embroidery by the swatch’s torn edge. “What’s this?” she asked.
But before I could say anything, someone bumped into me from behind. I stumbled forward and then turned to look.
“Sorry about that,” an unfamiliar woman said.
I managed a polite smile at her, as if it were no big deal. But that was before I noticed that she was carrying the same pink vintage clutch purse that Waverly Valentino had when she came to my house.
It was unmistakable.
“What’s wrong?” Hal asked, following my gaze.
The woman, in a halter dress and suede cowboy boots, had skin the color of hot cocoa and big violet eyes that matched the color of her coat. “The clutch,” I said.
“What clutch?” Zoe took a step forward, trying to get a better look, but it was getting harder to maneuver. More people had crowded into the auditorium as we neared the show’s finale. A long line of band members marched in front of us, blocking our view.
Hal appeared confused as well, but Callie knew. Her eyes zeroed in on the big, floppy flower attached to the front of the bag, as it bobbed and weaved—seemingly disembodied—through the crowd.
“You don’t think it’s the same one, do you?” she asked, practically shouting now. Members of a marching band were tooting their horns—literally—as they threaded their way through the crowd toward the center aisle. Meanwhile, the woman got farther away, almost to the exit doors.
“We have to talk to her,” Callie insisted.
Before we could even get close, a squad of cheerleaders intercepted us with an impromptu dance-cheer. Callie did her best to skirt around them, even taking a pom-pom in the face, but we still ended up getting stopped at the door. A few members of the talent show committee were insisting that we turn in our voting ballots before we left the show.
Finally out in the lobby, the woman was nowhere to be found.
“Where did she go?” Callie asked, rubbing at her eye.
We looked all around, finally spotting the woman on her cell phone, just steps from the main door.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” Callie called out to her.
The woman turned in our direction. “Can I help you?” she asked, flipping her phone shut. There was a Southern drawl to her voice.
She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, with pretty cornrows swept back in a half ponytail, and earrings that dangled to her shoulders.
“That bag,” I said, nodding toward it.
“Like it?” She beamed. “I just bought it at a second-hand shop downtown.”
“Which shop?” I asked.
The woman pondered a couple seconds, her eyes rolled up toward the ceiling, as if trying her best to remember. “Sam’s Place . . . or Play It, Sam . . . something like that.”
“Play It Again, Sam’s,” I whispered, suddenly remembering how Louise had said an interesting character had come into her shop to buy and then return something. I bet that person was Waverly Valentino. Of course, the why was still an issue.
“It was only my first time in there,” the woman continued. “You all should check it out . . . some pretty nice stuff.”
“When did you get it?” Callie asked.
“Just yesterday.” She wedged the clutch up under her arm, as if to pose. A wide smile spread across her face.
“I wa
nt to buy it,” I said. Callie and Zoe looked shocked at my boldness.
Her smile faded. “You can’t buy it. This is a one-of-a-kind. The saleslady assured me of it. You won’t see this one coming and going.”
“You don’t understand,” I said, pulling my wallet from my bag. “I want to buy this one . . . from you.”
Realizing I would not be stopped, Callie tried, too. “Please,” she begged, taking out her wallet as well. “That bag belonged to a friend of ours.”
“We think,” I said. “Or at least someone connected to our friend.”
“It’s sort of a long story,” Callie explained. “But our friend is missing, and it’d mean a lot to us if you’d please—”
“Name your price,” Hal said, finally catching up and pulling a couple of bunched-up tens from his pocket.
The woman’s face grew puzzled as we all pooled our money together. “Well, I don’t know,” she said, seemingly unnerved. A tiny frown formed on her rosebud lips.
“Please.” Zoe’s voice was calm but resolute. It seemed to do the trick.
“Well . . . ,” she said, giving the bag a once-over. “I suppose since it means so much to you . . . How about forty-five dollars? That’s what the purse cost me.”
Forty-five dollars: exactly $7.75 shy of what we actually had.
“It’s fine,” the woman said, taking all of our money, but forgoing Hal’s random offer of a Silly Putty egg that he had in his pocket.
“It’s all I have left,” he said with a shrug.
The woman emptied the contents of her purse into a shopping bag she was carrying. And in doing so, I saw it.
The purse’s lining.
I spotted the lettering and the fuzzy pink material.
It was from Ariel’s baby blanket.
CHAPTER 31
Once the woman had gone, Callie pulled the purse lining forward, having caught a glimpse of it as well. The remainder of a lowercase R was there, as were the rest of the letters: the I, the E, and the loopy lowercase L. Somehow the lettering was still recognizable despite all the wear and tear it had seen. It was covered with a layer of dirt, and it looked like some of the embroidery stitching had worn away. But even more fascinating was what we found at the very bottom of the purse, beneath a bubblegum wrapper.
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